Only the good die young
by scottmchungup
Summary: Ezekiel Pedrad understood the games better than anyone. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for those chosen, and yet he still ranks most likely. Mortality was fine, what didn't sit well was leaving his younger brother, Uriah. Even if he won, he'd be nothing more than the shell of Zeke. The hunger games has no winners. only those dead, and those better off that way.


The morning light peeked through the once red rags that covered windows, a shower of light dancing across dust that lined the surfaces of the dingy cabin the Pedrad family named 'home.' With it's broken wooden floorboards, cracked screening, and deteriorating walls, it was barely passable as livable. Even the rats would turn in disgust at the hut. it's only polish resided with the people that dwelled inside. The house was broken, cold and fading, but still it symbolized something like security. There was safety in familiarity and family.

District 12 wasn't infamous, as districts one, two and four were. District 12 was dirt, grime and coal, all mangled up and engrained into the people unfortunate enough to live there. Then again, 'live' was such a free term, manage was far more applicable. People got by with the bare necessities, and even that was debatable. The black market sufficed, but you were as likely to live forever than you were to find a decent meal. The desert probably held better resources, and yet the capitol considered allowed trading a privilege.

Ezekiel groaned, the sound barely escaping his lips before his strong arms pushed up from the broken mattress his drool had pooled on. His caramel hair, a tangled mess of curls atop his head, bobbed up and down as he rubbed his weary eyes, the weight of the day bearing down on him like the coal mines so often did. Today was the day. The day fate grasped everything in it's hands and thrusted death upon whoever was unlucky enough to fall victim. The capitol always called it an 'honor', or 'pleasure'. But it was common knowledge the games were just another way to take away what little the districts had. If family unified people, then the only release was the veil that coated death.

He wouldn't have minded it any other year. The mindless drawl of the crowds as they marched like a funeral procession to the grounds was almost tranquil, but this year was entirely different. Even the air seemed harsher, like every intake was just foreshadowing towards his future as the smoke from the died out furnace collected in his lungs.

Next to him, the awake of his little brother, Uriah, was signified by a definite plump. The heap of his form fell next to the bed, his tossing and turning ending in a uncomfortable, and rude awakening. Zeke laughed softly, swinging his own long legs off the fringe of their gray bed and onto the cold wood, his toes bristling against the nipping winter as if retaliating against the frost. In a swift motion, Zeke's hand had enclosed a pillow, promptly hitting Uriah's head with precision as Zeke proceed to the bathroom, attempting to brush away the mangled mop that was his morning hair.

"You look like Hell." Zeke commented, barely moving his head as he spoke, lathering his tooth brush up with what little tooth paste they had, and yet still leaving enough for Uriah.

"Now I know why everyone says I look like you."

Uriah retorted, rubbing his head wearily with his right hand as he yawned, covering his mouth with his left. Raising his butt just enough to rest on the fortress of blankets he fell with, he smiled boyishly. Dimples creating craters in his young face. Even now, his dark brunette hair sticking to his forehead, and tired demeanor, there was still a faint hint of excitement in his wide brown eyes. As if life didn't scare him, and if it did, the thrill of danger was worth it. There were numerous reasons Zeke idolized Uriah, and his general ease and fearlessness marked itself indefinitely in the top five. He didn't deserve the rut he was born into. A corrupt government, hell bent on destroying the youth of Chicago, a father who died to young to even make memories with his younger son, and a mother who went stale at the first notice of trouble. To say Chicago was worse than purgatory would be an understatement, and yet Uriah didn't seem to mind the slightest. He was like sunshine, impervious to the darkness, while lighting up whatever he touched.

Zeke laughed softly to himself, keeping his true thoughts bottled up as spit the remnants of toothpaste that plagued his mouth. Casually, he strolled back out, every particle in his body screaming out to give his brother a word of warning, or anything, really, for what the rest of the day held. But Uriah knew. Uriah knew what every child had been crying about in the past week. Knew why their mother didn't even look at the boys at all this week. And knew why Zeke hadn't left the house since Wednesday. Today was reaping day, and Zeke was prime suspect number one. Warning him would mean acknowledging the situation, thus making it more definite.

Ever since he was twelve, he'd been receiving rations for his family, his name entered 48 times as he rounded on sixteen years old. He'd be infamous for the most times entered if district twelve had bothered keeping records. He'd have trouble facing his mortality if he didn't know it meant a better life for his brother. So every month that he went to ground zero, it was almost peaceful. One life, for another really. And there wasn't a person alive more deserving than Uriah Pedrad.

Zeke fidgeted, stopping by the frame of their backdoor and falling back on his heels as he watched his little brother comb his curls away from his eyes. It was now, or never, seeing as how he'd be ushered out at the first sound of his name. The peace keepers had become far less caring, if they had ever been that way. Last year, Thomas Fairring and Lydia Arbot had been boarded onto the train, and shipped off to the capitol faster than Ezekiel could wield a knife, which he was fairly handy with.

"Look Ur, I-"

But his sentence was cut short by the abrupt, ear shattering cry of the horns. Blaring through every radio system known to man.

Uriah's eyes grew wide, his brown hues momentarily losing their luster until the third chime died out, along with Zeke's sentence. All that mattered now was getting through the reaping unscathed. It was blissful, really, to pretend he wasn't marching towards his end. Even if he was chosen, and somehow emerged from the battle fields in one piece, he was still destined to reach the end if he was chosen. The Hunger Games had no winners. Only those dead, and those better off that way. The only reason they had a 'winner' was to give their sadistic, barbaric form of entertainment some aspect of humanism. And dying seemed about as human as it gets.

"You'll be alright, Ur. I promise."

A/N: Sorry the first chapter kind of dragged on, the rest will be much more adrenaline-filled. If you liked please R/R, and any ideas you have send them in! Thanks!


End file.
